


I’m not her, but I can pretend

by maveytrash



Category: The Cruel Prince, The Folk of the Air - Holly Black, judecardan - Fandom, the folk of the air - Fandom
Genre: but I am a fool who does foolish things, do not expect others to share my depraved tastes, jude is not dead, nor will she die, this was a horrid idea, this was just some cruel fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 05:51:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19100992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maveytrash/pseuds/maveytrash
Summary: an imagining of cardan going half mad in the wake of jude’s death, therefore hooking up with taryn





	I’m not her, but I can pretend

Cardan calls Taryn to his chambers.  
It has been three months since Jude died. He still remembers the scent of her skin. The absence of her drives him mad. Taryn is a living reminder. A walking torment. The whisper of a memory that threatens to tear him apart.  
His grief is tangled now, with sinister notions.  
Perhaps his reasons once would have been purely to toy with Locke. To covet what was his, as he so easily coveted what was Cardan’s.  
But now, every time he sees the image of the girl he loved, the love he lost; he is stricken with overwhelming emotion.  
His body has had no release. Tension eats at him daily, stretching him thin, making him rigid.  
He sits now, on an empty chair, at an empty table, drinking something that will never satiate him like Jude did.  
A family torn apart, the shadow court dispersed, and the girl he called his wife, lay in a meadow, beneath the earth.  
He feels nothing.  
_I wish you were here Jude. I need you beside me. I wish it would have been me. I wish a million times it would have been me._  
A knock on his chamber door startles him out of his thoughts.  
‘Come in.’ He calls.  
When he sees the replica of the girl he loved, his eyes flicker. It is like a flaming sword to the heart every single time.  
‘Your majesty,’ she bows, gracefully. She was always more poised than jude.  
Cardan hated it. He only saw it as pretentious.  
It is so obvious, the difference between them. It had always been obvious.  
Cardan stares at her, half in a daze.  
He could pretend.  
He yearned for Jude like nothing else. He craved her and needed her like one would need blood in the veins or air in the lungs, or a pulse to survive.  
All that time of uncertainty, the days he wished Jude wasn’t around to torment him. And the absence, now, as much as it did the moment she died, tugs at his heart. Cuts it up and makes it bleed. He suspects it will last forever; the grief.  
‘Come hither, oh precious subject.’ His words are a mockery.  
She approaches, silent, nervous.  
Although she is not half as timid as she had once been. Time has been her teacher.  
Trouble has been her friend.  
Cardan reaches for her hand. Taryn’s eyes follow his every move, but she does not resist. He examines her hand, her soft and elegant fingers.  
Jude’s hands were much more coarse.  
He meets her eyes and pulls her toward him, making her sit in his lap.  
She cannot mask the hesitation in her eyes, but there is also something approaching triumph and determination.  
Cardan pretends he does not see it. He focuses on the pulse drumming at the base of her throat, inhales the pine and gardenia scent of her skin.  
He trails his fingers along her body, up, toward her hair.  
It is the same shade as Jude’s. Like walnuts. Like honey.  
He tugs at the band loosely keeping her hair bound. It falls, unraveling around her face, her shoulders, down her back.  
A feeling builds in him, rendering him weak.  
As his fingers move to her face, cupping under her jaw, Taryn places her hand over his.  
Cardan stops. Meets her eyes. He sees a silent war raging. And a dozen questions.  
The main one is obvious, so he answers.  
‘I am the king. I may have whosoever I desire.’  
And although there is power in every word he utters, the ones of late are empty. Detached.  
‘Is this about Jude?’ Taryn mutters, and he does not miss the indignation in her tone.  
The sound of her name pierces his heart.  
He simply looks at her, not deigning to answer.  
‘I am not her,’ she presses on. The gold flecks in her eyes mock him.  
‘I know.’ Cardan says, ruefully.  
Taryn’s eyes do not leave him. A new sense of determination passes over her.  
‘But I can pretend.’ She says.  
Cardan’s expression is unreadable.  
Then, suddenly, he pulls her up and off him and stands up. Panic flashes across Taryn’s face, fearing she upset him.  
But he pulls her with him to the bed and stops at the edge.  
‘Then pretend.’ He whispers, heartbroken.  
He waits. A second later, she meets his mouth with hers. At first, the kiss is hesitant, unsure, but then she tangles her fingers around his neck and in his hair.  
He kisses her back.  
His heart is bleeding and bleeding and bleeding. Frustration boils under his wretched skin. And the thing that makes him sick; desire.  
He steps forward and she steps back and they fall onto the bed. She pulls him over her, until his body is suspended over hers. He looks at her, drinks in those features.  
It is not the girl he fell in love with. Not the girl who stole his heart.  
This girl is not half as fierce or brutal, not in the ways Jude was. There is no cruel intelligence, or fiery spirit. No cold wit or disarming beauty.  
This girl is a shell; a half faded, long lost reflection of the girl he cherished.  
A half spent memory.  
The kiss is almost devouring, heat crawling up their spines. Cardan is desperate, tortured, aching for a fix he cannot receive.  
He remembers Jude. He remembers how she looked at him, how she touched him. He thinks of all the moments. He thinks of their kisses, their lovemaking. He gets lost in it.  
‘Jude,’ He whispers against Taryn. Their breaths mingle. His eyes are pressed tightly shut so he does not see her reaction.  
His mouth is on her neck.  
They pull off each other’s clothes. His fingers trail her skin. Mouths meet mouths, skin and tongue. It is a feeble attempt at solace, a disastrous choice, one Cardan knows he will hate himself for. But he hates himself either way, so he does not stop. He is lost in the memory of her.  
‘Jude,’ He whispers, again and again, making love to a ghost. ‘Jude, Jude, Jude, Jude, Jude, Jude.’

**Author's Note:**

> who let me write lmao
> 
> ty for reading, love y’all


End file.
